


Interludes

by ms_prue



Category: Star Wars: The Old Republic
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:04:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_prue/pseuds/ms_prue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which you- magnificent, witty, deadly Sith Warrior you -hang out with Vette, smoking shisha in a pillow fort in your Fury's cargo bay in between running Darth Baras's errands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Between Balmorra and Nar Shaddaa

"He thinks he's so clever," you say to Vette as you both share a hookah in the cushion room she's put together in a corner of your cargo hold. Vette doesn't answer right away, and you wonder whether she's succumbed to the comforting embrace of the pillows and the smoke and general exhaustion and fallen asleep.

"I thought you liked Quinn," she finally replies, sounding a little drowsy and confused.

"Of course I like Quinn," you say, lazily pulling the pipe back out of her hand and taking another long draw. "Baras," -your voice drips with contempt- "thinks he's clever. Pulling strings and getting Quinn officially posted to me."

"And you like Quinn, and he doesn't always tremble in mortal dread in your presence, so I guess he kinda likes you too," says Vette. "I'm not seeing the problem here."

"I know what Baras is thinking, Vette. He thinks he can manipulate me. Force my hand."

"Yeah, I hate it when my boss does that," says your mouthy Twi'lek ex-slave. You ignore the attempted provocation and continue on.

"Baras wants me to stop being nice. He's trying to press my buttons, get me all worked up and nice so I'll do things how he wants them done - extra brutal, no mercy shown."

"Not that anyone cares about what I've got to say, but I've got plenty of eyewitness testimony about your mercilessness and brutality, my lord."

"Thank you, Vette," you say, taking another puff of the delicately flavoured tobacco. "You're right, of course. Nobody cares what you have to say about it. So my dread master has decided to give me a ship and has now furnished it with an eminently fuckable first mate who's so hidebound he wouldn't break protocol even if I held my lightsaber to his neck. Thus, driven mad by insatiable sexual frustration, I will tear a swathe through the galaxy and leave such unfortunate survivors as remain to cower in fear under the carcasses of their dead compatriots until I have departed their pitiful backwater planet."

"Mmhmm," Vette nods. "That's certainly an interesting conspiracy theory you've got there. Now are you gonna keep that pipe all for yourself or are you gonna be nice and share?"

You lie back on the cushions, looking up at the dark fabric hangings of your little smoke tent. It might be for your exclusive use for the time being, but you're always aware it's not your ship, but the ship you use at your master's pleasure. But this space, this warm, dark, smoky cave is yours. It's so nice to come here, in the quiet times in between missions, and just be for a while. To let your guard down, get your head together and remember the bigger game. You take one last breath of delicious smoke and hand the pipe back to Vette.

"I'm too nice already, according to Baras. He wants to rile me up. And he thinks he can use Quinn to do it."

"Quinn's not particularly nasty, by Imp standards," Vette muses, blowing smoke rings into the air. "I hate to say it, but he's almost decent. For a human."

"Like me?" you ask slyly, reaching for the pipe back, but she knocks your hand away.

"I think you've had enough already, my lord. You're talking crazy."

"I can put that shock collar back on your neck any time," you warn her.

"You'd have to find it first," she replies without malice. You rise back up onto your elbows and fix her with your most intimidating stare. It washes over her like water off a duck's back.

"I might not be as cunning as you, Vette, but I'm still pretty cunning."

Your hopelessly insubordinate friend tries to smother a laugh.

"I'll show you," you reply haughtily. "I'm going to outplay Baras at his own game. I'm going to turn his pawn to me."

"Um, I don't think Quinn needs to be turned, my lord. I'm pretty sure he's on your side already."

Considering this, you find Vette does have a point. You've felt Quinn's desire for you already, seeping through the cracks in his self-composure. The only real unknown is how much resistance to expect from his rigid military discipline. But if you can find a way through that tough outer shell of rules and regulations, the man underneath it all is ripe and ready to succumb.

You sink back down into the cushions, lost in your thoughts. Somehow, without your noticing, the pipe has made it back into your hand. You take one last puff and drift into a deep, dreaming sleep full of willing Imperial lieutenants and their soft, obedient mouths covering your skin.


	2. Sore Winner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations on reaching chapter two! Jaesa Willsaam is your newest recruit, so why aren't you out celebrating?

Another day, another addition to your little crew, and another brief window of opportunity to laze around in your cozy little cargo hold cushion tent and shoot the breeze with Vette over a convivial hookah pipe. This evening's tobacco is Alderaanian, probably some poor Thul officer's finest, expertly swiped while his attention was elsewhere. You detect a faint tang of nectar and pine resin on this particularly fine leaf. It pleases you that you should be enjoying the spoils of an aristocrat's incompetence, enjoying his private reserve far more thoroughly than he himself would be capable of. This is what the success of wresting the padawan Jaesa Willsaam off Master Nomen Karr should feel like, you think. But instead your victory rings hollow, the enjoyment sapped out of it. You wonder why.

"Jedi," you huff contemptuously, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.

"Okay," Vette says, after you fail to elaborate on this obviously very profound statement. "I'll bite. What about Jedi?"

"They're fools."

"I hope Jaesa's not out there listening," says Vette, sneaking a peek out between the tent hangings. "Phew. All clear, my lord. Rant away."

Jaesa. Such a pity she wasn't there to see your fight with her master. One didn't need special powers to see the darkness that consumed him as he raged and struggled and ultimately lost. And now the precious padawan sits on your ship, fretting and worrying, counting down the moments until you and she supposedly rise up and overthrow the entire Empire to the Light. Stupid, foolish Jedi notions, even now, apprenticed to the Sith who cast her master down. You feel foolish yourself, now, after being so eager to meet this formidable girl whose mere existence sent Baras scrambling to cover his already well-hidden tracks. Jaesa is nothing like you expected. If there is any satisfaction for you in turning her, it seems you will not know it for some time. And to make it worse, it's too late now to make a clean break and kill her, not after you've presented her to Baras as a trophy of his victory. No, and for all her potential, the wisest course is to keep her confined to the ship, out of the way of critics and schemers who would use her to weaken your position and plant doubt about your methods and by extension your loyalty to the Empire. You will just have to hope that her mewling Jedi ways don't provoke Quinn into doing anything rash, like asking Baras for a new posting. Especially since Quinn has been complaining about Vette's needling. Which reminds you:

"Vette, I'm to tell you to stop pestering Quinn over his important secret mission."

"I knew he was up to something devious!" Vette crows. "You should see the way he turns red when I mention that Moff Broysc guy. So what's the story? Was it a forbidden military love affair gone wrong?"

You try to picture Quinn swooning in the arms of a Moff. The image goes a long way toward lightening your mood.

What was that Moff business all about, anyway?

"Something to do with vengeance," you reply dismissively. "I wasn't really paying attention."

"Definitely an affair gone bad, then," says Vette, satisfied with her assessment of the matter.

"Now that I've told you to stop bothering him," you add, "I can also tell you there's a bonus in it for you if you manage to provoke him so badly that he breaks protocol and comes knocking on my cabin door in the night."

"I deserve a bonus anyway," says Vette. "For extraordinary service above and beyond the call of duty. Such as that time I didn't fall down laughing when Jaesa did her Force trick on you and decided you weren't completely evil. Listen, have you actually tried telling Quinn how you feel?"

"I have, and he continues to hide behind his blasted protocol," you growl. "Ten thousand credits, paid through a Nar Shaddaa bank. Fifteen if he's so agitated he forgets to put on his uniform and shows up at my door in his underwear."

"For fifteen thousand I can get a whole troupe of men in their underwear to knock on your cabin door. But if you're after Quinn specifically..." Vette shrugs. "Sorry, my lord, you're on your own on that one."

"Coward."

"Hey, I help you take down Jedi masters now. Tests have shown conclusively there's not a cowardly bone in this fine Twi'lek body."

"Jedi," you sneer absently, and your thoughts wheel back around to where you left off your rant earlier. "Such pathetic creatures. Do you know what makes them so easy to beat?"

"I didn't realise they were easy to beat," Vette retorts.

"Their code weakens them," you explain, dismissing your companion's difference of opinion on the matter of Jedi competence. "Instead of just fighting their enemy, they must also fight themselves. I imagine it is easy to be a Jedi, in peace. One does not have to wrestle with one's emotions when nothing is at stake. But in war, we Sith will always be stronger, because we accept that peace is a lie. When we come to battle, the only thing we need fight is our enemies. Undivided by the need to control our emotions, our will is superior, and thus we will always prevail."

"You know, for a person whose greatest joy in life, as far as I can tell, is crushing skulls with her lightsaber, that's pretty deep. Did they teach you that at the Academy?"

"No," you admit. "For me, the Academy was mostly about crushing skulls."

"What about all that Sith Code stuff?" Vette asks.

You shrug.

"To be Sith is to be victorious. The rest is just detail. Winning is all that matters. Which is yet another reason why Sith will prevail over Jedi, who stupidly believe in service and sacrifice. As they delude themselves into thinking they serve, they shall be sacrificed."

"Service is a drag," Vette, your delightfully insubordinate former slave agrees. "Winning is much more fun."

You wish, in the case of Jaesa, you could agree.


	3. Holiday on the BBA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you and Jaesa take little trip somewhere sunny to chase off those Taris blues.

You flick the 'dismiss Baras' switch on the holoterminal and turn to your crew.   
"Quinn, how urgent is the situation, exactly?"   
Your first officer consults his datapad.   
"Action on the matter of Darth Vengean's flagship is required within 18 hours, or we risk losing our opportunity, my lord," he reports.   
"Hmph. Pierce, can you think of anything you might be able to do to extend that window?"   
"One or two things," Pierce grunts happily.   
"I'm sure there is some interference I can carry out, too," adds Quinn, eager not to be outdone by the ship's newest agent of mischief and insubordination. This is most pleasing. With any luck this blossoming rivalry can be productively harnessed into at least 48 hours of free time before you absolutely must see to Baras' next errand.   
"Excellent. Both of you work together and do what you can. Vette, how's the terenthium hunt coming along?"   
"Still got a couple of leads to track down, boss."   
"Good. Get busy. Jaesa, you're with me. Grab your gear and let's go." 

~

Vaiken Spacedock seems to get more crowded every time you visit. Hundreds of Sith wander the vast corridors, sporting suspiciously fresh scars from the many furtive battles being fought in this time of so-called peace, rubbing shoulders with blaster-happy mercenaries and civilian-types carrying intimidatingly large rifles that scream 'Imperial Intelligence' louder than their victims ever will when they come for them. You lead Jaesa toward the gaudy new bazaar and auction room underneath the old military trading floor. This is what comes of letting Hutts set up shop in your military base, you think resentfully, eyeing the tacky carpet and fairy lights with great unease. Still, no matter how inviting they try to make it look, they can't do anything about the air, which continues to smell as it always has; like it's been piped straight from a bantha's backside.   
"Where are we going?" Jaesa whispers as you enter the elevator.   
"Personally, I fancy somewhere sunny," you reply.   
Hutts are reasonably organised, as far as crime - sorry, _trade_ \- cartels go, but for all their wealth and experience they could still learn a thing or two about efficiency from the new Bounty Brokers' Association. In less than five minutes you've been furnished with an interesting-looking contract and all the necessary supplies you'll need to complete it.   
"Got the drinks?"   
"Yes."   
"Probes?"   
"Yes. And the carbonite."   
Not that you'll be needing it, you suspect.   
"Right, let's get to Tatooine." 

~

"So we're going to capture a criminal?" Jaesa asks excitedly.   
"Indeed," you reply, although the truth is you have no idea. The only part of the bounty you can remember is 'Tatooine' - all the rest of the names and places were filed on your holo by Quinn. But it seems plausible enough your mark is a criminal. The hot slap of sunshine on your face as you exit the spaceport is deliciously refreshing after the unyielding gloom of Taris.  
"I can't wait to do some good for a change," says Jaesa, her eyes glowing bright and optimistic.   
"Think of it as a little paid vacation," you tell her. After all, you certainly are. 

~

The drinks seem to be working on your informants in the back room of this seedy little cantina, and it is proving dull. You decide to send Jaesa off to buy some more so you can see the interrogation probe in action instead.   
Upon her return, Jaesa is horrified to find you surrounded by fresh corpses.   
"What happened?" she asks. "Are you okay?"   
"Just trying out those probes we got from the BBA."   
"They must be defective," Jaesa concludes.   
"Must be," you agree, as you rifle through the pockets of your recently deceased sources. They seem to contain a goldmine of information, if only one could be bothered to study it properly.   
Instead, you get Quinn on the holo.   
"Are you busy?"   
"As it happens, I'm in the middle of trying to direct some reasonably complex electronic countermeasures against a Republic battle-cruiser several systems away..."   
"Good. Tell me what all this means."   
You upload the necessary information via the comm-link and wait impatiently for Quinn to work his magic.   
"This is actually fairly interesting. Based on this information, it would seem to suggest..."   
"Just send me the names and coordinates," you order him.   
"Yes, my lord. All done."   
"Appreciated." As you click the holo off you notice Jaesa is still holding the tray of drinks. You help yourself and settle into a comfy seat while cleaner droids start moving out the bodies. The holiday seems to be working. You feel more relaxed already. 

~

Happily, the rendezvous location to lure out your mark is not yet another squalid cantina, but a sunny and picaresque rocky outcrop overlooking Sand People territory. Your Mandalorian opponent has one or two friends, but you have a Jaesa Willsaam, and she tears them down easily enough. Alas, like most brawls, it's over too soon.   
"Oh no," says Jaesa, "we didn't freeze her in time!"   
"I thought you had the carbonite?" you lie.   
"I thought you had it! Oh, master, I'm so sorry."   
"Never mind, Jaesa," you say reassuringly, "you fought bravely. I'd say we've earned ourselves another drink." 

~

Meerko, your client, is ecstatic, and so are you when you return the completed contract to the BBA. They have quite an interesting range of goods for you to spend your bounty money on. You are impressed with the efficiency and audacity of their organisation all over again. 

~

You return to your ship triumphant, trailing an exhausted Jaesa and a confused lobelot behind you. First order of business is to present the animal to the steward droid.   
"What can you do with this thing?" you ask.   
"Well, master, I can feed it, groom it, and generally make sure it is kept exercised and healthy. I will also set up a nesting box for it in the cargo bay. Does it have a name?"   
This is not the response you were expecting.   
"I meant in the way of recipes, droid."   
"Oh no, master! This lobelot is clearly a pet!"   
Sure enough, the stupid creature is nuzzling up to Jaesa's legs. You sigh. Maybe Vette will want it. Or Pierce. You suspect Pierce has a secret soft side. He's probably been pining for a lobelot for years.   
"Very well. Droid, take care of the animal. Jaesa, find Quinn and tell him to set course for wherever it was Baras wanted to send us. Wake me when we get there."   
"Yes, master."   
You return to your quarters, where the heady perfume of your own sunburned skin, spiced with a hint of blaster residue, lulls you to a deep and contented sleep full of blissful dreams of petty criminals with pockets stuffed with credits, their throats torn out by your very own specially trained ferocious killer lobelot.


	4. Big Softies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you and Lieutenant Pierce undertake an important scientific mission on Hoth.

"Pierce," you bark through the intercom with your usual impatience.  
"Yes, my lord?" comes the lieutenant's gravelly voice from the depths of who-knows-where inside your ship.  
"Special assignment for you. Report to me in the cargo bay."  
"Shopping list?" he asks, referring to your usual practice of sending him out with a little list and a stack of credits and seeing what he can come back with.  
"Not this time. Bring your hunting gear."  
"Understood, my lord. Reporting to cargo bay."

Pierce has been mucking about with the ship's weaponry, because although clean enough on the surface, he smells like grease and missile propellant. Quinn, meanwhile, is hovering protectively over the crate, no doubt acutely conscious of just how many credits have gone into procuring this precious cargo and shipping it out to benighted Hoth.  
"I suggest you get them planet-side as soon as possible, my lord. They should keep fresh for a long time on the surface, but they will spoil very quickly here on the ship."  
"Very well," you nod to Quinn. "Let's get this crate on the ground, Pierce."  
"Right away, my lord."

Pierce can't help but notice the FRAGILE stickers and quarantine and biohazard stamps that cover the crate, but he doesn't say anything. Clearly this is not his first time escorting suspicious cargo through hostile territory, and from what you know of his service record, that isn't surprising. His obedient silence, however, is a little unexpected. You decide to see if you can pique his interest.  
"Try not to jolt it," you warn Pierce as he wheels the cargo on its little pallet wagon through the Hoth orbital station's elevators.  
"Bioweapons?" he asks, curiosity finally getting the better of him.  
"No," you reply. "And now you've only got two guesses left."  
The lieutenant nods - your challenge has been accepted.

At the customs checkpoint, the clerk sees a huge Imperial soldier, a slightly less huge but much more menacing-looking Sith lord, and a crate covered in exactly the sort of labels that mean she should never, ever allow it to enter a military outpost uninspected, let alone an extremely sensitive military outpost whose personnel are already suffering under extreme environmental conditions and don't need an unexpected outbreak of womp rat fever or nexu mange on top of the frostbite, gonorrhea and hypothermia they already have. In other words, she sees you and she sees a choice between either the end of her career if she just waves you through, or the end of her life if she doesn't.

She watches in mute horror as you halt, unbidden, at the checkpoint.

"Biological samples for scientific research," you inform her, your voice distorting in a suitably terrifying manner through your mask.  
Pierce spots an opportunity and exploits it without hesitation.  
"Want to inspect it?" he offers the clerk.  
But you've already given her all the information she needs to supply on her datawork, and has gathered her wits sufficiently to realise she might not have to fear for her job after all, and maybe even her life, if she plays this right.  
"No, thank you, that won't be necessary," she stammers, frantically tapping away at her datapad. "You're cleared to board. Have a nice day."  
You nod curtly and sweep off to the shuttle, trailing Pierce and his trolley full of mystery cargo in your wake.

"Is there a prize for guessing right?" he asks, unexpectedly interrupting the tedium of the flight from the orbital station to the planet's surface.  
"Why not? Let's say a bottle of Tarul wine."  
Pierce considers this.  
"And there's a penalty for guessing wrong?"  
"Absolutely. For a start, I'll keep the wine for myself and tell Quinn it was you who raided his private stash of Tarul's finest."  
He smothers a bark of laughter in a big meaty hand. "Good incentive. Okay, second guess. Corpses?"  
"Incorrect," you inform him.  
"Hmm." He goes silent again, and spends the rest of the trip to the surface in deep thought.

The crate leaves the shuttle unmolested, and Pierce deftly loads it onto the hired cargo speeder Quinn has arranged for you. He seems very reticent to use up his final guess.  
"Going to need some hints," he says, pulling the last strap tight.  
"The description I gave to the customs clerk was accurate, for what it's worth."  
"Hmph," he grunts. "Didn't know you were interested in science. All kinds of biological samples come out of Hutt space."  
"I'm not particularly interested in science," you inform him.  
"Trade, maybe? Going to swap this lot for something you actually want?"  
"Something like that. Have you got an idea what might be in the crate now?"  
"Got an idea I'd rather not know," says Pierce, looking faintly worried.  
"Spoilsport," you laugh, hopping up onto your own personal speeder. "Follow me." And together you set off in a little convoy out through Dorn Base and across the Icefall Plains.

You choose a sheltered location under an icy ridge to cache your perishable goods, and save the coordinates just in case you get lost looking for it again in this featureless snowy wasteland.  
Pierce is holding a shovel, but looking unhappy about it.  
"Where do you want to bury this stuff, my lord?"  
You send your awareness into the snow and below the rocky surface, feeling for just the right spot. You've never tried this before, but you've seen it done plenty of times, so it can't be that difficult.  
"Look out," you warn Pierce, and use the Force to rip a boulder roughly the size of your crate out of the hard-frozen ground.  
Despite the fact you've just saved him hours of digging, Pierce still looks unhappy.  
"Jedi trick," he mutters.  
"Oh, I've stolen lots of stuff from Jedi, lieutenant," you say breezily. "Force tricks, apprentices, lives..." He perks up a bit at the reminder that you're not such a soft touch after all. "Now, I'm going to unpack some of these to take with us, and then you can shift the crate into that handy hole I've just made. And don't forget you still owe me a final guess."  
"My lord," he replies obediently. You let him watch as you take half a dozen small, roundish items hidden in layers of plastic and tissue paper out of the crate. Then, while he starts to move the crate into position and his back is turned, you quickly unwrap one of the pieces to take a look at the item for yourself. After all, you've got a whole crate full of them, and you're curious why these stupid little things should be so expensive and sought after.

You unclip your mask and flip it back, intending to eat it in one go, but you've misjudged - when you bite into it unexpected amounts of liquid bursts out, running down your chin and making you laugh.  
"I didn't realise they'd be so juicy," you explain to Pierce, wiping the mess off on your cloak. "Ugh. Now hurry up with that last guess, because I'm not going to give you any more hints."  
Does your huge, unflappable, scary-as-all-get-out lieutenant look nervous?  
"Eyeballs?" he asks gingerly.  
"No." You unwrap another one and hand it to him. He looks suspiciously at the little fruit, sniffs it and takes a bite.  
"Not bad," he says. You help yourself to a second one, too. After all, they are quite tasty. It's almost a shame to have to feed them to livestock.  
"Apparently they're a sort of tauntaun bait," you explain. "And tauntauns are a sort of wampa bait. Are you ready for some big game hunting? For science, of course."  
"Don't need any excuse for a hunt," Pierce grins.

Your first stop is a wild tauntaun nest. To lure the mature tauntaun that attracts the wampa, you must undergo the hardship and suffering of feeding the sugary fruit to adorable baby taun fauns. At least, it is a hardship for you. The wretched creatures shy away from the supposedly irresistible fruit in your out-thrust hand and cower together in the centre of the nest.  
"Let me try," Pierce offers. You hand him the fruit, certain that his efforts will be as futile as your own.

But instead of quivering in fear at the sight of your huge companion, whose demeanour most sentient beings throughout the known galaxy widely agree is quite threatening, the taun fauns actually start to show an interest in the bait. Pierce crouches down beside the nest and gently rolls a piece of fruit down the side toward the fauns. They sniff at it tentatively, and then begin to nibble it. Before you know it, the fruit is all gone, and three tiny faces have turned to stare at Pierce expectantly. By the third fruit they are happy to eat straight from his sausage-like fingers. The picture they make is utterly charming, and you are so captivated by this spectacle you completely fail to notice the arrival of the fauns' anxious parent, and almost miss the arrival of the wampa following close behind.  
"Incoming!" you shout to Pierce, as you draw your lightsaber and charge the vicious beast.

The day passes quickly in a delightful haze of bloodlust punctuated with heartwarming interludes with cuddly little taun fauns. At one nest Pierce develops such a rapport with the tiny creatures they even allow him to hold them while he feeds them. He beckons you closer.  
"Reckon you could pat this fellow," he says, stroking the little faun gently between the eyes to demonstrate. You pull off your armoured gloves and copy his technique, feeling the soft fur under your fingers. Pierce whispers soothing noises into its strange little ears while you and the animal get better acquainted. Alas, much too quickly, the moment is over, and Pierce carefully replaces the faun in the nest. You start to complain, but Pierce has unslung his rifle and uses it to point out the approaching wampa. Oh well. Back to work.

When it gets late and the thrill of scientific research begins to wear off, you pack up and head back to the speeders. While the hired speeder's cargo tray is being loaded up with fresh wampa pelts, you grab a couple of fruits from the cache for the trip back to Dorn Base, and hand Pierce a round treat, too.

"One more for the road," you say, and pop the fruit into your mouth whole. Pierce follows your lead and swallows his without even looking. However, unlike you, when he bites into his mouthful he doesn't seem to enjoy it at all. He spits it out in a panic and hurries to grab a handful of snow to try and rinse the taste away.  
"Eyeball," you explain merrily. "Now, don't let this tauntaun business give you any ideas that I'm getting soft."  
"Never, my lord," Pierce gags.  
"As it should be."

The trip back to base is uneventful. When you return to the tauntaun handlers' booth you are delighted to discover this day's work has yielded enough 'research' for a fine, sturdy beast capable of a very satisfactory speed across Hoth's notoriously inhospitable hills and valleys.  
"Just remember, even though he's trained, he's still capable of giving you a nasty goring," the handler warns. "So treat him well and handle him carefully."  
You nod in acknowledgement as slip off the back of your new mount and hand the reins over to the mostly-domesticated companion, who will be taking responsibility for the beast when you're not riding it.

The shuttle pilot accepts your new cargo with dangerously bad grace, but suitable accommodation for the huge beast is found swiftly enough and the three of you manage to return to your ship without needing to resort to murder or even dismemberment. Quinn, in the meantime, has done an excellent job of arranging a stabling facility in the cargo hold. 

While Pierce gets the animal settled in its new home, your crew stop by to take a look at their new shipmate. Vette seems impressed, but it's always hard to tell. Jaesa, meanwhile, does a terrible job of hiding how much she disapproves. You expect your apprentice will try to deliver some sort of lecture about the evil of enslaving wild creatures for transportation purposes next time you're alone together. To Quinn the beast is just another material and logistics problem - frankly, he doesn't even seem to find the animal itself particularly noteworthy, barely even glancing at it as he confirms with you the arrangements for feeding and grooming and informs you how to contact the nearest emergency vetinary service should any problems arise.

"Take good care of Mauler while I'm away," is your final instruction to Pierce, when the parade of visitors finally ends.  
"Name's 'Mauler'?" Pierce grins. He pets the grown beast with much the same success as he had on the fauns. It's eyes are half-closed, its face inclined at just the right angle to better lean in for cheek scratches. A strange sound rumbles through the cargo hold, almost like purring. It's not quite as heartwarming to watch as the sight of him petting a tiny faun, but it's close.  
"Yeah. Mauler," you say, heading back to your cabin for a well-earned rest. The lieutenant and the tauntaun seem to be in no hurry to go anywhere. "I don't want anyone to think you're getting soft, either."


	5. Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To misquote some song lyrics: you have come to the conclusion that you've come to a conclusion.

"I remember when we didn't have to leave the ship to find a cushion room," says Vette, waxing nostalgic beneath her paper parasol and dark goggles. You can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia yourself for your long-lost cargo bay pillow fort. Or maybe it's the start of a heat headache. It's warm enough up here on top of the bantha, and you can only imagine how hot it is down there for the bantha, suffering underneath two bodies and a pile of its own smelly fur. Still, for a hired beast with an inappropriately insulated hide, it keeps a decent pace. You twitch the bridle, steering it around the shady side of the building where an attentive urchin takes its leads and gives it a well-earned drink. Together, you and Vette slink into the little backwater cantina and make your own needs for comfort, privacy and liquid refreshment known.

The cushion room of this dusty Tatooine cantina doesn't hold a candle to your own back in its heyday, before the cargo bay of your ship filled up with tauntauns, Talz assassins and crates and crates of high quality equipment worth a fortune on the black market. You have gained a great many things in your wild career - colleagues, infamy, credits, and entirely unwanted position of responsibility in the Sith hierarchy. Oh, and revenge. The revenge was the most enjoyable part. But none of your riches entirely compensate you for the cost of your success. Now that you have everything it's painfully obvious that what you really, really wanted all along were the two things you've never had; privacy, and free will. It is in pursuit of these two unobtainables that you have come here, to this sun-blasted dustball planet and its zero-star rated swillholes, attempting to make yourself comfortable on the tatty cushions of their filthy smoking room while trying not to choke on their interpretation of liquor.  
While you try to rearrange the pillows without kicking up a cloud of dust, Vette unpacks the hookah and charges it with today's tobacco blend, its distinctive scent wafting through the stale cantina air with dark, musky tones and leather notes.

"Is that leaf or bantha fur?" you mutter. But after taking a draw you realise it's not as bad as all that. Under the leather there is cloves and aniseed, even a hint of citrus. It has a purifying effect on the room. You take another hit and are mildly surprised to find yourself starting to relax.  
Your companion, however, doesn't seem to be chilling out.

"Vette, you haven't made a sarcastic remark in the last ten minutes. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, my lord. I just don't feel like dying today."

"Don't tell me I've finally broken you."

"Of course not."

You offer her back the pipe; she takes it with nervous fingers.

"Okay," she admits. "Maybe I am a little bit broken."

"That makes two of us, then," you mutter, staring into your cup. The drink is barely cold. The cushions are lumpy. The drapes might have been colourful twenty years ago, before the dust got to them, but now they are just sad. And as your nose becomes accustomed to the scent of the fine tobacco there's no mistaking the main perfume in the air is essence of dirt.

"This isn't as fun as I remember," you complain, and Vette reaches over with her free hand to pat you gently on the shoulder.

"A lot's happened since the last time we slacked off between jobs. Do you even slack off anymore?"

"I am constantly avoiding my duties," you tell her, "but it's exhausting."

"I thought Quinn looked a little miserable lately."

"I'm avoiding him, too."

"Ah. But I thought, um... I was under the impression you were happy together, my lord."

Malavai. You have a hazy recollection of official forms being signed and submitted, destination unknown, culminating in a spectacular lovemaking session in a casino penthouse suite on Nar Shaddaa. Back before things got busy again. He still presents himself at your cabin door promptly at eight on the increasingly infrequent nights you spend on the ship, and sends concise and informative updates on things like 'infant contingency plans' that you glance at and never reply to.

"He's a very dutiful husband," you are forced to admit. "But you know how I feel about duty, Vette."

"You and me both," she replies with heartfelt sincerity.

You close your eyes and lean your head back on the cushions. Where did it all go wrong? What happened to the thrill of the chase? Being the Emperor's Wrath is much the same as being Baras' enforcer, sent off to kill people you've never heard of, whose supposed transgressions against the Empire don't interest you. Violence and intimidation used to be so enjoyable, but no longer. Now you find it dull beyond words. The little Revan chase was interesting, for a while, but now he's been laid to rest and the inevitable path to war with the Republic is back on track. Business as usual, again. It's possible tedium will succeed where thousands of blasters and lightsabers have failed. Unless...

"Vette, what was tomb robbing like?"

"It was fun," Vette replies. "But you know I never kept the treasure, right?"

"I remember," you assure her. "I was just interested."

"Please don't be. I know from personal experience what unpleasant things happen when Sith get 'interested' in something."

"What if I told you I was thinking of giving up the Sith thing?"

"I'd sit here and keep smoking this pipe."

"That's not very helpful, Vette."

"Hey, if this is going to be my last smoke before I die, I am damn well going to enjoy it."

"I mean it," you say, looking her in the eye. "I'm bored. I want out."

Vette carefully searches your expression for any sign that you're joking, but cannot help but conclude that you are in deadly earnest.

"Well, shit." She's shaken for a moment, but quickly recovers. Her expression blanks briefly while she thinks through the ramifications of your impossible idea. You've seen that look on her before, when she takes a moment to line up the perfect headshot. What is she calculating now?

"You realise it means we can't keep the ship?"

"Fine."

"Or the husband-slash-sex-slave arrangement you've got going there with Quinn."

"Whatever."

"And you'll need to adopt out your apprentice and that lobelot."

"I'll get Broonmark to drop them off on Coruscant. Some Jedi would be thrilled to have her back. Well, not thrilled, they probably don't go in for that. But very smug. And the Talz bastard can keep the tauntaun, too."

"And your black-ops nutjob?"

"I imagine Pierce be reassigned, as will Quinn, when I get reported as killed in action."

"Oh really? And when will that be?"

"Sometime after a spectacular shuttle crash over the Dune Sea tomorrow afternoon. Or maybe the next day. It depends."

"Depends on what?"

"Whether my friend says I can go treasure hunting with her."

"Hah!" Vette scoffs, but she's finished thinking it through now, and she's smiling. "I don't know. Do you have any experience breaking into tombs and slicing security protocols?"

"None whatsoever," you admit cheerfully. "But I can beat the living daylights out of pretty much anything, and I made a number of interesting business associates on Rishi who like to pay big credits for quality artifacts."

"It would be nice to get back with the old gang and liberate some stolen culture," says Vette. "And I guess I could use a big, strong offsider. Those crates can get mighty heavy to lug around."

"That's what lifter droids are for."

"Funny how often you don't come across lifter droids in those old tombs."

"Very well, I'll buy us a lifter droid with the proceeds of our first artifacts."

"Now that you mention proceeds, we should discuss what kind of split you're expecting. I think 70-30 is reasonable, for a baby relic hunter who does muscle on the side."

"I thought I'd let you take at least 35 per cent."

"Oh boy..."

The negotiations take the rest of the afternoon and several more bottles of the house's finest. Agreement is reached that Vette will refrain from giving you actual orders, as such, and in return you must do the same for her. Funds will be pooled in common until a reasonably-priced labor droid can be purchased, and then split 40-40-20 with half the third portion going into Shared Expenses and the remainder of the third portion to the Twi'lek Survivors of Slavery Compassionate Fund. In the event of a total relic drought, you and Vette can agree to anonymously take on very carefully selected capture-only bounty contracts in Hutt space. But only when Quesh is in perihelion, or something. You can't remember.

You weren't sure what, precisely, you would have to do to leave the Sith life behind, but your new arrangement with Vette sounds like utter anarchy.

You can't wait to get going.


End file.
